


Again We Go

by dumplin



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mary and Muriel were friends and canon cannot convince me otherwise, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Slow Burn, Social Commentary, Social Issues, basically I was the only one who asked for this so I decided to make it, two people getting a second chance at love, while being respectful and mindful of the love that came before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumplin/pseuds/dumplin
Summary: An empty house made lots of sounds, and Muriel disliked all of them.
Relationships: Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix/Muriel Stacy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Again We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know how either farming or machines work please don't fact check me.
> 
> Elijah's age is never mentioned in canon and the actor is older than the actor for Sebastian, so in my head Elijah is about 21 years old, and Mary was older than Bash when they married so yeah.

An empty house made lots of sounds. 

There was the creaking of the roof at night, when one was trying to sleep, trying to convince oneself that ghosts were figments of the imagination, nothing more, no matter what one’s own overactive imagination may insist. There was the skittering and thumps and bumps in the night, even in the daytime, and nine times out of ten it was the the wind from a forgotten open window, or a mouse or rat that had made a home for itself, but you lived in fear of that tenth time, when it was something far more insidious. 

An empty house made lots of sounds, but most people didn’t know that, because most people didn’t live in empty homes. Muriel hadn’t always lived in an empty home. Once, she was the youngest and most adored of five siblings, with loving parents and a house full of noises that didn’t frighten or scare, because you knew the shape of the person who made them. Once, Muriel had shared her house with a wonderful, madcap adventurer of a husband, who had loved her, and let her love him in her own, madcap way. Their marriage hadn’t been perfect, no one’s was, but the happy moments had far outshined any other and Muriel had not ever wanted it to end.

But it had, because all things end, some sooner than one wished, or thought it would. It had ended, and her parents had told her to come back home, to take care of them in their dottage, and Muriel would have been happy there. It wouldn’t have been ideal, but it wouldn’t have been a hardship. She didn’t, though. Go back home, that is. It would have been safe to go back home. It would have been safe to live her life as the widower aunt, maybe teaching at the local school until she herself got too old to teach. It would have been safe, and expected, and for precisely that reason Muriel couldn’t do it. 

Contrary to some people’s beliefs, she never set out to be any kind of rebel. She didn’t wish to lead revolutions, to start conflict or cause scandals. She just couldn’t help it that her way of living, her normal, her  _ life _ didn’t fit the mold. She liked wearing trousers and foregoing corsets not to make a statement about women’s fashion or liberation, but because it was comfortable, and promoted free movement, and her interest in engineering and all things mechanical demanded those two things. 

She knew that compromises were the way of life, and had expected to have to settle to a fair few in Avonlea, though after the initial drama she was glad to find all she had to do was wear dresses to school and only eschew to wear a corset every other day. It’d been a full year, full of new acquaintances and new challenges and dear, dear, friends, and now she had just said goodbye to her first graduating class in Avonlea. 

Muriel wasn’t a completely green teacher, she knew that children had a way to cling to the coattails of your heart, staying with you long after they had left your life for good, but she had never imagined how fond she could be of this special, special class. 

Anne had been her own host of problems and drama, but Muriel saw so much of herself in Anne that it had felt like a knife to her heart to say goodbye to the girl. Anne had already sent her a letter, full to the brim with news about her parents, and her new boarding house and all the draconian rules, and Gilbert (dear Gilbert), and how they had finally sorted things out. 

Muriel had watched that particular development with interest and a stinging fondness in her heart that recognised the soft, sweet innocence of first, sincere love, and she couldn’t have been happier for them, and she knew that, whatever the world threw at the two of them, they would sort through it together. Gilbert was one of the sweetest, most open-minded and kindest people she had ever met, and that, together with Anne’s imagination and true, unfiltered compassion, was a tried and tested recipe for a happy life, Lord willing nothing tragic happened. 

It wasn’t just them that had set her heart to aching, however. Diana Barry, standing up to her parents, pursuing her education, one of the most beautiful people, inside and out that Muriel had ever met. Ruby Gillis, sweet and kind, finding all the love and romance her dear little heart desired in Moody, another kind, gentle soul. Rosie Pye, struggling to go her own way in a world that had set her up to be vain, conceited and mean, and making great strides despite everything set against her. Jane, Tilly, Charlie, all of them. They had made her first year at Avonlea as warm and welcoming and adventurous as she could have ever wished, and Muriel found herself quite at loose ends as the long, summer months loomed in front of her.

Normally, in this time, she would set up lesson plans for the whole year, reading up on new developments in teaching or science that may have happened while she was otherwise occupied, any free time she had after that devoted to tinkering at the mess of mechanical doodads in her shed. 

Now, however, she found herself with a deep, naked hurt in her being, and she just couldn’t settle. To anything. She’d spent the first week of summer doggedly forcing herself through her normal routine, but when she woke up the following Monday morning, staring another week just like the last in the face, she summarily dropped all her plans and picked up her fishing rod. She forewent the corset and dress and let herself run wild and free and comfortable and that. That made her feel better. Almost. 

The only person who had ever found her on that specific strip of the river was currently busy on the farm, planting and harvesting and doing whatever it was that farmers did. It wasn’t Muriel’s field of expertise. She didn’t expect him to be there, shouldn’t have expected him to be there, but she couldn’t help the slight dip in her mood as she arrived and found the river bed free of a smiling dark face and sympathetic heart.

Still, it was good to get out of her empty house, out of her head, into nature that was a house that was never empty. Muriel snorted at herself. She would admit to a bit of a tendency to overdramatics, but she wasn’t usually quite as saccharine about her poetic thoughts. One couldn’t be, not with an interest in mechanics. The hard cold logic of machine parts and the way they fit together was almost always a welcome change from the seemingly unordered chaos of the world. 

The minister wouldn’t like her saying that. God had a plan and all that. Muriel still went to church on Sundays, it was something of a requirement in a town as small as Avonlea if one didn’t want to gather the ire of all the various busybodies in town; read, Rachel Lynde. But Muriel had her own ideas about religion and her place in the world, and the longer she lived the less she felt at peace with the things said in church. She didn’t have strong feelings about it either way, though, so it was no great hardship to go through the motions. It had been a good place to distribute the school newspaper. Which, with the removal of the printing press and the burning down of the schoolhouse had come to a rather… unfortunate end. 

Rachel Lynde would have a lot to say if she missed church even once, anyway. Rachel Lynde had a lot to say either way. She’d finally given up on her mission to find Muriel a ‘companion’, although she suspected it was only because Rachel had run out of sons and was now recruiting from neighbouring towns. It had been entertaining while it lasted, although it did have the unfortunate after-effect of making her mind linger too much on topics and thoughts best left undisturbed.

Like how Muriel always slept better with someone in the bed with her, having spent her entire childhood sharing with her sisters before getting married. Or how it was such a chore to make food for only herself and that she had not been taking care of herself as she should be. Her mother would be horrified, so all the letters Muriel sent home was filled with positivity and all the ways in which she was busying herself and mentioned nothing of long afternoons with a fishing rod in the water and mind preoccupied with things she knew she shouldn’t think about. 

Her fingers were clumsy as she tied the requisite knots and attached the bait. It had been too long since she’d done this, too long since she let her mind out to pasture. Maybe that was why she felt so restless. 

Unbidden, her mind flitted to the last time she had been here, at the way a certain small body and giggling face had looked up at her, and the hurt that had been her vague companion for a few days sharpened to a point and drove itself into her throat, forcing a harsh gasp through her mouth and hot tears across her cheeks. 

She was being ridiculous. She  _ was _ ridiculous. A woman, contrary to popular belief, didn’t  _ need _ children to be fulfilled in life. It was a ridiculous, outdated notion and it wasn’t like she had any wish to have children with anyone other than her dear departed husband. Their children would have been absolutely  _ lovely _ , she just knew it. 

“Ma’am?” The voice came from behind Muriel to the right, and she turned around, wiping errant tears from her cheek while attempting to keep the fishing rod steady as stupid, painful sobs still shuddered through her. Standing in front of her was a young-looking black man, and Muriel had the vague recollection that Mary’s son from before her marriage with Sebastian was now living on the homestead. She attempted a smile through her tears, ignoring the way the corners of her mouth threatened to pull down. 

“Oh, hi, sorry, you’re, uh, you’re Mary’s boy, right?” Thank goodness she’d stuffed a handkerchief in her pocket. Muriel started blowing her nose with vigor before scrubbing her cheeks with it, trying her best to look at least not entirely like she had lost her mind. She was sure she made  _ quite _ a picture. 

“Uh, yes, ma’am. Sorry, but are you alright?” There was a concerned frown tugging at his forehead and he had a hand extended towards her, as if she might fall or collapse into a fit of crying. He reminded her  _ so much _ of Mary. 

That revelation brought with it a new wave of tears and Muriel felt the fishing rod slip out of her suddenly nerveless hand and she had only enough presence of mind left to hope the current didn’t carry it off when there were steadying hands on her elbows and she was being lowered to the ground with a steady stream of comforting words. When she had finally calmed down enough that one glance at the bewildered and slightly scared face of the boy next to her didn’t bring on a new wave of tears, she laughed and brought the handkerchief in her hand, not her own, she noticed, up to her face. 

“Sorry about that,” she chuckled, wincing at the congested sound of her voice. “I dread to wonder what you think of this wild, hysterical woman you found in the woods. Fishing, no less!” She laughed again. The way she had gotten rid of her emotions may not have been the most convenient, but it had certainly gotten the job done and Muriel felt more clear-headed in that moment than she had felt in days. 

An uncertain chuckle sounded next to her and she looked over to see the boy, young man, really, with her fishing rod laid down next to him, still looking shell-shocked. “Ah, no, ma’am, I’m not thinking anything bad. Beyond that I misjudged white women.”

Muriel burst out laughing again and this time the responding laugh was given a tad more freely. “Oh, I wouldn’t go around saying  _ that _ in Avonlea. We have our fair share of proper ladies who would have my head if they saw me now!” Muriel remembered her state of dress. “And I’m not even wearing a dress or a-- Anyway.” She shook her head, still laughing and stuck out her hand. “Call me Muriel, I’m the local teacher.”

A spark of recognition flickered to life in his eyes and he seemed more readily inclined to talk to her as he leaned forward and shook her hand in his own, firm grip. “So  _ you’re _ the one that had helped young Blythe secure his position at the university! I’m Elijah. Elijah Hanford.”

Muriel snorted as she retrieved her hand. “ _ Young _ Blythe? And, what are you, four, five years older than he is?”

Elijah ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Three years, but it’s the world experience that makes all the difference, wouldn’t you say?” The grin he shot her way was disarming, and clearly meant to be, and Muriel snorted, all too used to the way young upstart boys at school would try to charm and flirt with the teacher. 

“Uh-huh. Of course. Gilbert only travelled to Trinidad and back on a steamer ship, but world experience, sure.” 

“You said it, not me.”

She shook her head, but she was still smiling. “So, Elijah, what are you doing outside the farm? I thought it’s the busy season now, or something like that.” She cleared her throat, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Is it obvious I don’t know anything about farming?”

Elijah narrowed his eyes and looked around as if checking for eavesdroppers before leaning closer himself. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He leaned back, stretching himself out on the riverbank. “Besides, I wager you’d know more than me. Sebastian sent me to town to buy some part for some machine or another, but I’ve already forgotten what it is, so now I’m just wasting time so I could say I at least tried to get it before going back.”

Muriel perked up. A malfunctioning machine? She might not know much about farming, but she  _ did _ know machines, and this might be  _ just _ the distraction she was looking for. “A machine broke? Do you know what machine? I’m quite handy with machines, you know. If I can go take a look, you might not even  _ have _ to buy anything from any shop.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow at her. “You work with machines? I heard the teacher was odd, but I never could have imagined a woman not only prancing around in trousers and fishing but also fixing up all kinds of machines. Maybe Avonlea isn’t quite as boring as I’d half feared it’d be.”

Muriel grinned at him as she picked herself up from the ground, starting to pack up her gear. “Oh, trust me, Avonlea is more than capable of entertaining people, and try saying it’s boring here in a few months, just try.” She stood upright, fishing rod slung over one shoulder and tackle box in her other hand. “Well, come on, daylight’s a-wasting, and I can’t imagine Sebastian will be all too happy if you wasted any  _ more _ time.”

Elijah, a half-smile on his face, incredulity in his brow, shook his head, sighed and pushed himself upward, leading the way after Muriel gave way with an overexaggerated bow. He knew the way better than she did, anyway, since she couldn’t fathom any path to the Blythe-Lacroix home that  _ didn’t _ go through the main road. 

Her day seemed to be looking up after all.

\---

The machine Elijah deposited her in front of, after a quick detour to the house to coo at and snuggle little Delphine and trying not to feel too inadequate under the gaze of Mrs Lacroix, was, in Elijah’s own words ‘something to do with turning up the earth.’ Muriel had only the most academic of understanding about how that worked, but after sending Elijah off to fetch her some water and a plate of biscuits which she would one hundred percent forget was there until she finished, she settled down to work and discovered, to her relief, that she knew what she was doing.

She might be no great farming buff, and she might only have a vague idea of what this machine was supposed to accomplish, but she knew how to look at machines and understand the way pieces fit and why they fit the way they do. It was easy enough to locate the problem. The part that Sebastian had sent Elijah to replace had some use in it yet, though it would have to be replaced in a few months, if it continued to undergo the use it was currently seeing. 

Muriel had just removed the piece and was picking up a hammer to straighten out the offending protruding part, when a shadow fell across her work and she looked up, squinting, to see a dark, man-shaped figure leaning against the doorway. 

“When my mama told me a strange woman was vandalising my plower, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d find. Should’ve known it’d be you.” There was a smile in Sebastian’s voice, and after a few more blinks the glare of the sun faded enough for Muriel to be able to discern his familiar face. She grinned, hefting the hammer up, tilting her hip and resting a hand on it. 

“A plower! Is that the name of this magnificent beast?” Muriel let the hammer descend on the piece with a ringing clang, letting loose a delighted peal of laughter as Sebastian started forward, presumably to save the piece from her destructive hands. “No worries, if my fix doesn’t work, or if my fix breaks this even further, you wouldn’t have lost anything, since Elijah told me he had been sent to the shops for a replacement piece.” She let the hammer fall again, and again, and one more time, and finally the crooked piece seemed more or less straightened out and she dropped the hammer and held out the piece with a grin. “Though, I do think I just saved you some money and another round trip to the shop, as Elijah had forgotten the name of this little guy.”

That surprised a bark of laughter from Sebastian, and she looked up to see him closer, now, staring at her with an expression just shy of wonderment. Muriel had no explanation for the sudden hot flush climbing up the back of her neck. Surely she was too young for  _ hot flushes _ to have taken hold of her yet, right? Surely.

“So, what, you just go around offering your services to any hick walking around?” A beat as his word choice sunk in, and then Muriel had the delightful experience of seeing a grown man stutter over his own words, trying to remedy his wrong. She was privy to it little enough, given the custom of a man always being right and never having to apologise to a  _ woman _ , of all things, but she put an end to it quick enough. Gratifying as it might be, it was coming from the wrong sort of man, and Muriel never had a sadistic streak in her anyway.

“It’s fine,” she laughed, waving away his apologies and protests. “You’re lucky that I know you, and know that you would never willingly imply something like that to a woman.” Her smile gentled as Sebastian cracked an unsure smile in return. “I don’t think Mary would have married you if you were.”

Here, Sebastian ducked his head, but before Muriel could worry that she had prodded a wound too recent and not scabbed over, he answered in a voice Muriel very much recognised, having often used it herself when speaking of her own dear, departed husband. “That she wouldn’t have.” He lifted his head and there was a smile on his face now, though it was still brittle, still prone to collapsing if one prodded too hard. Muriel would not be prodding. “Mary knew her mind, that was for sure and certain. I wonder every day why she decided that I was worth her time.”

He wasn’t looking for an answer, so she smiled down at the piece of machinery in her hand, in camaraderie and out of respect, and walked closer to the machine. “To answer your question, Elijah found me lamenting the lack of fish on my rod at the river, and after informing me of his predicament I felt a trip to a piece of machinery that dearly needed my love and attention would be just the thing to, as Anne said, drag me out the ‘depths of despair’.” Muriel heard Sebastian’s answering smile and chuckle as she ducked her head beneath the plower, hands gliding over cold, gleaming iron parts, and she knew that he appreciated her change in topic, as clumsy as it might be.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I would very much appreciate it if you remove yourself from obstructing my light source, though I wouldn’t mind the company as we wait to see if my tinkering gives any results.”

“Ah, sorry, Miss Stacy, I’ll get out of your way.” Muriel couldn’t see him, but from the tone of his voice she imagined he might be making a mock little bow her way and she didn’t try to suppress the giggle bubbling out of her chest. She felt like laughing little enough these days as it was. 

“Now, I  _ know _ I’ve asked you to call me Muriel on quite a few occasions, and I’ll be quite cross with you if you insist on not calling my by my name when your s-- when Elijah only had to be told once before he got it right.” She popped her head out from under the plower, raising an eyebrow at an amused looking Sebastian leaning against the wall of the shed. 

“That boy needs to learn respect,” Sebastian chided softly, though Muriel could almost see the reluctant fondness for ‘the boy’ in the way his mouth turned up slightly at the corners, the softening in his eyes. Sebastian was a soft, loving man, and, for just a moment, Muriel felt choked up thinking about the amount of love both his children would receive, even though neither Elijah or Sebastian might be ready to admit they thought of each other that way. 

“‘That boy’ did respect my wishes, so I don’t really see anything wrong with it.” She patted the head of the plower. “Now, let’s see if my fix worked, and then you can tell me how much water I’ll need to remove the oil that I’m sure is all over my face and hands and, uh,” Muriel glanced down at her pants, wincing at the black smudges her hands had made, “all over my clothes, it seems like.”

“I think a dip in the river  _ might _ be enough to start loosening up the stains,” Sebastian teased, moving closer to help her move the machine out of the shed and into a position to hitch the big draft horse to it. After bending down and tapping and adjusting at something, Sebastian stood up and smiled at her. “I’m no expert in these things, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but the part that seemed to have been shaking and coming loose before is no longer doing so, and I suppose I have you to thank for it. If you go into the house, I’m sure my mother will be happy to prepare some hot water for you to clean up with.” 

Happy to? Muriel cleared her throat, grimacing slightly. “Well, I’ll do that, but only if you promise your mother won’t  _ actually _ eat me alive.” She leaned closer, hand coming up as if to whisper something to Sebastian. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Sebastian leans closer still, eyes flicking around before landing on her again, mischief dancing in his eyes. “To be honest, I don’t think she likes anyone very much, but she hasn’t killed anyone yet, so, I think you’re safe.”

Muriel simply sighed and shuddered theatrically before turning to head inside. For a second she had thought she saw an inkling of her husband in Sebastian, in the way he had gone along with her scheme, in the way he had held himself, in the way he had  _ spoken _ , and she hadn’t trusted herself to speak. 

She  _ was _ at peace with her husband’s death. She had raged about it and then mourned him, and she had come to accept what had happened to him, and to her, and moved on with her life. But she didn’t think she would ever be entirely  _ over _ him, be entirely  _ moved on _ from him and that, that scared her the most. Because, as much as she disliked rattling around her empty house and lying tensely listening to all the noises at night, some deep,  _ hurt _ part of her balked against ever opening herself up to something like that again, for anyone other than her husband. She’d accepted the hurt that might come from loving someone as completely as she had loved her John, though it had come sooner than she’d expected it, and she couldn’t imagine going through it with anyone else ever again.

She didn’t want to be alone, but she didn’t want to  _ lose _ again, and she would never,  _ ever _ , make someone have to accept something less than the full, sincere kind of love that every human being deserved, and that Muriel doubted she was capable of anymore. 

And that,  _ that _ scared her more than any bumps in the nights or long, empty hours ever could.

\---

Mrs Lacroix was less than impressed by the state of Muriel’s appearance, having barked at her to take off her boots and making her stand in her wooly socks until she had heated up a basin of water for Muriel to use. 

“You can take this to master Gilbert’s old room and wash up in there, no one’s using it at the moment.” She said this while holding out the steaming water, and while Muriel had full faith in her abilities to fix up anything mechanically inclined, she wasn’t so much enamoured with herself to think she would be able to carry a steaming hot metal apparatus the few steps to Gilbert’s room without either burning the skin off her hands or dropping it immediately. The first of which would be a great inconvenience, as Muriel kind of  _ needed _ her hands, and the second which might result in grievous injury of not only herself, but anyone standing close to her. 

“Do you maybe have, uh, something to grip the sides with?” An eyebrow raise. Muriel tried her best not to feel like some sort of wayward child. “I just,” she waved her hands around, “my hands aren’t really used to that type of heat and I’m afraid I’ll hurt one, or both, of us trying to carry it without some sort of insulation.” 

Both eyebrows were raised now, and Muriel readied herself for a tongue-lashing, but instead Mrs Lacroix just sighed and pushed past Muriel, not unkindly, and started walking down the hall. When she was about five steps away and Muriel still hadn’t moved, she turned around again, and Muriel had the distinct impression there would’ve been a hand on a hip if it weren’t for the fact that both her hands were occupied at the moment. “Well? Are you coming then?”

Muriel nodded hurriedly and started off after her, a torrent of apologies and thank you’s falling from her lips as Mrs Lacroix left her with the water and a collection of washing cloths and towels. There was even a small, rosebud shaped cake of soap that Muriel would have made more of a fuss over if Mrs Lacroix hadn’t been muttering under her breath about ‘useless white people’ the whole way. Which, given the context of the situation they were in, Muriel was inclined to agree with. 

The water was just on the right side of too hot, and Muriel had just determined that she had washed everything that could be washed without taking off her clothes, when there was a knock on the door and Mrs Lacroix’s voice saying, “I left a change of clothes outside for you. You can give it back when you’re here next time.”

Muriel didn’t know which part of that to respond to first; the fact that Mrs Lacroix apparently had spare clothes that would fit Muriel, or the assumption that she would be there again, and soon. Before she could puzzle that out, steps sounded down the hallway indicating Mrs Lacroix’s departure, and, with a towel thrown around her shoulders, Muriel opened the door to find a dress that seemed achingly familiar. Picking it up and closing the door, shaking out the dress, she realised where she had seen it before, and it was a punch to the gut. 

It was Mary’s clothes, of course it was, an unassuming dress that Muriel must have seen Mary wear a thousand times, and Muriel’s hands shook as she folded it up and laid it aside, determined on not wearing it, and that was what she blamed what happened next on. She had just laid the clothes carefully on the bed, smoothing out some non-existent creases, her hands still shaking, and when she turned around to dip a washcloth in the water again and ensure her face really  _ was  _ clean, her hand, somehow, caught the edge of a basin. In one massive splash, she upended the water on herself, drenching the front half of her clothes, rendering them completely unwearable if she wanted to get home without, one, causing a scandal and, two, catching her death. 

Thankfully, the basin had tipped right back upright after the first initial splash, the weight of the water sloshing around it righting it, so most of the spilled water had landed on Muriel herself, and not on the floor, although she was quickly rectifying that situation by dripping all over everything. Muriel waited a few moments, waited to see if there was any reaction from outside the room, if anyone had heard something, but after several moments had passed and nothing happened, she was forced to turn her attention to the distressing matter at hand. 

She  _ had _ to get out of these wet clothes, and she  _ had  _ to clean herself up, and she really had no choice but to wear Mary’s clothes now. It was all kinds of inappropriate and insensitive, and Muriel felt the shame and embarrassment of the whole thing like a thorn in her stomach, but short of walking out of the room in clothes that had gone nearly translucent and displaying herself to the whole world, she really didn’t see any other way. 

It was… a regrettable set of circumstances she found herself in, but she was sure if she was careful and quick, she should be able to get out of here before Sebastian saw her. She simply had to. 

Mary’s clothes were a smidge too big for her, Muriel not being nearly as blessed in the chest as Mary had been, but some aggressive tightening of the laces and fluffing of the skirt hid most of the flaws and made her perfectly presentable. In the middle of trying to tidy up as much as possible in the room, folding up her own clothes into a small, sad, sodden pile, Muriel caught sight of herself in the mirror and had to pause, had to swallow past the lump in her throat as her head insisted on calling up memories from the last time she had seen Mary in this dress, happy in her kitchen, Delphine on her hip, smiling as she traded one of her delicious apple pies for a bucket of fish from Muriel.

Muriel’s hand tightened on Mary’s skirt, crumpling the fabric between her fingers, and it was only the cold drip of water down the inside of her elbow that reminded Muriel that she was still holding wet clothes she had to wring out. A quick glance out the window showed the sun creeping close to the edge of the horizon, and Muriel’s efforts sped up, an almost frantic voice in her head spurring her on, telling her she had to go, go,  _ go _ ,  _ now _ . 

When she was done, there was almost the same amount of water in the basin as there was in the beginning, and her clothes, thankfully, weren’t dripping anymore. Unsure what to do with the towels and various other knick-knacks, Muriel left them in the room, simply carrying out the basin, intending to ask where she could throw the water and stow the basin. She kept her eyes firmly on her task, determined not spill any more water, and so it was that it was only when she heard a punched out sounding, “ _ Mary _ ,” that she looked up and saw Sebastian, Elijah, Delphine and Mrs Lacroix all gathered in the kitchen, staring at her, only the later not wearing a surprised expression. 

Muriel was quite certain that the only reason she didn’t just drop the basin and spill water everywhere for the second time that day, was because the table was right beneath her and it was a short journey for the basin to the table, though it was an agonisingly long journey from Muriel’s position to her fishing rod to the door, where she paused, heart beating in her throat, half-tempted to start stripping there and then, and said, “I’m so sorry, so sorry. I’ll take my leave now.” Another pause, an awkward head bob, string cutting into her fingers as her hand curled too tightly around the fishing rod. “So sorry.”

And then she was out, and the evening air was cool and fresh and welcoming and Muriel didn’t realise she was running until she stumbled and almost fell, catching herself against the side of the shed. 

Okay, Muriel. Slow down, you’re alright. That was an awful situation, but it was done now, and as soon as you’re at home you can get out of these clothes and start forgetting about it. As soon as she was alone in her empty house, sat at her own empty table, eating her dinner for one and, and. Maybe she should look into getting a dog. Or some sort of companion animal. The direction her thoughts had been skewing into recently couldn’t be a healthy way to live. 

Muriel righted herself against the shed and took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. She was alright. This was alright. She was just about to start walking again, actually  _ walking _ this time, when her name being called behind her stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to see Sebastian jogging towards, door thrown open behind him, warm, golden, inviting light spilling out behind him. 

“Miss Stacy, wait, Miss Stacy!” When he saw she had stopped, he slowed down, then slowed down again, and then finally came to a stop in front of her, breathing slightly elevated. Muriel backed up until she felt the wall of the shed at her back, then immediately felt silly at Sebastian’s shrewd eyes on her, straightening herself once more. She hadn’t done anything  _ wrong _ , after all, though it most definitely was in poor taste. 

Muriel winced, seeing the way his eyes followed the lines of a probably extremely familiar dress. 

In  _ very _ poor taste. 

“I--” she started, stopped, took a breath, and started again. “I’m sorry. I just, your mother gave me these clothes, and I wasn’t going to wear them! I really wasn’t, but then there was an accident with the water and my  _ own _ clothes got soaked and I didn’t really have any choice and, uh, wow I just realised I left my clothes in Gilbert’s room--”

“Miss Stacy, please, it’s fine,” Sebastian waved her words away, a smile peeking out at the edges of his beard and Muriel stopped talking with a stutter and a blush, periodically clenching and unclenching her hand around the fishing rod. “I was just, I was just shocked, is all.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh, running one hand through his hair. “Hadn’t seen that dress in a while, and all.”

“Of course you haven’t and you don’t have to explain yourself and, really, I should have just toughed it out with my clothes and--”

“Muriel.” The way he said her name was calm, collected, and warmer than Muriel had heard someone say it in, in  _ quite _ a while. It also had the added benefit of shutting her up, which seemed to have been the whole point of it, if Sebastian’s pleased smile was anything to go by. “It’s fine, really. I was taken aback, and reacted before thinking. I really don’t c-- I don’t blame you, or anything like that.” 

It was quiet for a second as Sebastian rocked back on his heels, sparing a glance back at the house as he did. Muriel felt a trickle of what she was sure was blood run down her finger, pooling at the tip. 

“You should come back. To the house I mean.” He cleared his throat. “You also left your, uh, tackle box there. With your clothes, I mean. And, my mother’s already set a place for you at the table.” The smile he sent her way was sheepish, and did more to set Muriel at ease than any number of words ever could. “Come on, come back to the house. Mother outdid herself with the food tonight, and I know she’ll be cross if the guest of honour doesn’t show up.”

That startled a laugh out of Muriel. “I thought your mother didn’t like me?”

Sebastian winked at her. “She doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like showing off.”

Muriel laughed again and, after a questioning head tilt from Sebastian, shifted her fishing rod to her other hand and nodded. “Well, alright then, if you  _ insist _ .”

“I very much  _ do _ .”

Muriel nodded again, and Sebastian nodded back at her, and they began their odd little procession back to the house, her without shoes, because she had forgotten them as well, and Sebastian without a hat and in slippers, back to that golden, welcoming light, and to a warm, home-cooked meal.

**Author's Note:**

> I was the only one who asked for this so I will build and captain this ship and story myself whoop
> 
> Twitter: [googlyeyes1507](https://twitter.com/googlyeyes1507)


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